Love poems, poetry, poets, emo,

A late night partywhere Romantic Dadascut a rug too iridescentto resistour smug caresses.How will we beginaddressing them,by name or by a facethat turns away from youunseen, leaves scarcea trace behind.Mister Novalis,or if that isn’tyour real name,drop it right now& try another.He is too determined,too far belowhis average heightfor anyone to count.Aside from whichthere are the odorsof the womenwho surround him,so many that the walls beginto press his skull.He has to break awayto make an outcryin the name of Dada.I and I and I are leftwithout a placeulterior to place,to run or hide.

The Persistence of the Lyric Voicefor Scott McLean

He will keep writing,will he not,as you will.A pressure like a fingerbuilds insidehis chest& travels upward,somewhere betweenthe trachea& glottis,pushes the fold aside& breaks.Imagined speech.It is the same for everythingwe say we think we knowthe speaker but the speakerescapes our observation.It is this concealmentthat revealsthe truth of poetryno less authoratativethan the otherin full gusto.From the direction of his voice,an absence & a grief,his profile is a kind of blue.The footfall of a wanderercrosses the open fieldin daylight.Let the spirit riseuntil it’s mind,the untranslated,untranslatable,in which the lyric voiceresides mind’s matter& its coming forthby day.

A Deep Romantic Chasmfor Michael McClure

A deep romantic chasmbeckons him it leaves no timeto hide from lightin spite of circumstances,& the way the streetflows like a streamfrom no source,nowhere. This seasonwith its birdsnewly arrived,the first one on a fence,mortal as you,a harbinger of days to come.Another word,a false return,the spoken still unspokencarries us off.The cavern of the universewidens each morning.My head fills up with dew,the father writes,having no home but wherehis shadow leads him.In greasy shirtsleeves, heavylids, blotched faces,the men pursuea trail of tears,unbuttoned captiveto a dream,a starless galaxy,the deeper skya field of imagesmeasureless & mindless,absent their god.

Concealed Assassins

Those who are mastersneedn’t talk,but signal with a secretnod or wink,concealed assassinsbrought into the mix.Involuntary tears,a dream of executions, (C. Baudelaire)smokerises between our teeth.The ones who loved usdie not one by onebut now en masse,the presence of the deadin every corner.The wretch who testifiesmay also sing,capturing the ebb & flowof tides, the pressureblood breedswhere it stokes the body.Once to stand there,hapless,to sense the joyin failureonly the wisecan know.Someone will lifta burdenfrom our eyes& we will witnessworlds unseen

[Earlier parts of this series were published as A Book of Concealments by Chax Press in Tucson (2004) & as A Second Book of Concealments by VEER Books in London (2007). The final section, A Third Book of Concealments, is now ready for publication.]

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